Dead Air
by dediamjustded
Summary: You looked me in the eye and lied. **TRIGGER WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, IMPLIED SUICIDE, IMPLIED PAST RAPE**


Notes: I blame CatAvalon for this. Entirely. So, this is for her. And it's short coz it made me super depressed. I also left it kind of vague on purpose. Heavily, heavily influenced by "Dead Air" by Blessthefall, highly recommend listening to it before/while reading

 **DEAD AIR**

My fist is through the mirror, a temporary distraction to numb other pain. It scatters my thoughts and they fall into the sink like the tiny pieces of glass as I pull my hand away. There's blood, but the pain is fading already. When I look past it, I can still see a thousand copies of myself, and I look so much more empty than I feel.

A million years ago, we sat under the stars. We rode out to the mountains of Almaty and I spread out a blanket but you took off your shoes and sat in the grass to feel it between your toes. You laughed and blushed and showed me the toes you'd painted back home with Mila. You pushed your hair back from your face and my eye caught on the bracelet that matched mine. You must have seen, even as the sun vanished, because you blushed harder.

I stole our first kiss there, while the universe moved around us and the night rolled in. I held your hand and laid beside you and your secrets for hours. I thought nothing could be better than this. I thought we were perfect.

But I don't know if I knew you, now. How big were your walls? How much did you hide from me? How much of what you ever told me was true? Now I will never find out. I will leave the mess for later. I wash my fist in cold water to stave off the bleeding, then pad through the silent apartment, kicking clothes and objects out of the way. There's little pieces of you here, scattered about. Hiding in cabinets and on shelves and in corners and photo frames. Pieces of you I will have to decide what to do with. Maybe I will tuck them away for years, and they won't hurt as much when I find them again. Maybe I will leave them out, displayed like an open wound to fester. Maybe I will just burn everything.

My phone is ringing, somewhere. I can hear it, but I lost it when I threw it across the room. The first of many things I tore apart in a desperate need to have some sort of _control_ of the situation.

A thousand years ago, you helped me move in here. You picked the paint colors, placed the furniture. You criticized my music and my books ("Who reads so much? How do you even have the time?"). We danced on furniture and made love in the bed and on the couch and...this place is _us_. It may be mine because your home is Russia, but it is us because we made it together. We built this up as ourselves. At least, I thought- _think_ -it is us.

When the scandal made national news, you never said a word. When the sickening ring was exposed and the skating world was flipped upside down before Worlds when you were 18, you just changed the channel and called Mila to make sure she was okay. I didn't realize you couldn't trust me.

A hundred years ago, you sat down with me on a couch and took my hand. You looked me in the eye and lied. Maybe it just came too easily to you. But as I sink into the couch now, pushing aside blankets and the remains of a picture frame, I realize you were trying to save me. You were too far gone and didn't want to save yourself.

They said when they found you in the tub, you were already gone. You had music playing and it seemed you had been there for hours. They said your apartment was empty, like you'd moved out already, but Victor and Yakov and even Mila knew nothing about it. I rake my hands through my hair and realize you had this all planned out.

A month ago, we had an argument and I didn't understand. You didn't want me to come, you said you had visitors, relatives that didn't like strangers. You said you had to go and we would talk about it later. I cursed and said your full name and you held your breath on the other end of the line. I thought everything was sorted, I thought I knew everything there was to know. There was a voice, in the background, and you had to go.

A week ago, I had a plan. I bought a one-way ticket and a set of white-gold bands. I packed a bag and set them by the front door. They're still there right now, untouched.

An hour ago, my phone rang.

Ten minutes ago, my fist went through the mirror.


End file.
